Year One: the Snake in the Grass
by xIrelandx
Summary: Petunia Dursley knows Harry Potter's going to be getting a letter, but she's more than a little shocked when her own son does as well. She's not the only one with a surprise wizard son - John Watson's mother wasn't expecting it either.
1. Chapter 1

Dudley was the first to receive his letter. He was older than Harry, after all, if only by a few months. Harry groaned at first, because wasn't it bad enough that Dudley was heavier than he was and had more friends than he did? Did Dudley really need another advantage in which to aid him in Harry Hunting? It all seemed incredibly unfair, like the nightmares he'd experienced after being dragged with the family to the zoo for Dudley's birthday. But Harry's agony dissipated soon, as Uncle Vernon's 'well-done-son' speech never came. In fact, Uncle Vernon seemed to be going out of his way to ignore Dudley's existence entirely, and Aunt Petunia seemed to be avoiding the family at large, spending most of her time in her bedroom crying.

'This must be what you feel like all the time,' Dudley whinged, plopping himself awkwardly on the small bed in Harry's even smaller cupboard under the stairs. Harry was caught in between wanting to comfort his cousin (damn his sympathetic and empathetic tendencies) and wanting to tell him to leave his bedroom. Nonetheless, Dudley's sentiment became stronger when Uncle Vernon announced next morning at breakfast that Dudley was to move to Harry's cupboard, and Harry was to move to Dudley's bedroom.

Dudley's mouth spluttered a bit, chins wobbling. 'No questions,' Uncle Vernon demanded, not even looking at his own son. He seated himself again as Petunia scurried out of the room, sobbing. Uncle Vernon turned to Harry and asked, oddly affectionately, 'Fancy a bit of toast? Dudley can get it for you.'

Harry had to admit to wondering what it was like for Dudley, to get everything he wanted, to have his parents' undivided attention, to be popular at least in someone else's eyes. It felt terrible, if he was going to be honest with himself. It wasn't just that Dudley was now horribly depressed and the voice in the back of Harry's head kept making him feel guilty about living the good life at someone else's expense; no, now that Harry was the good son, for lack of a better term, in the family, he was never left alone. He didn't know if it was because he was so used to loneliness and the independence that came with negligence, but he his Aunt and Uncle's (though mostly his Uncle's) constant attention annoying. He didn't have long to worry about it, though; only a week or so later, his own letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry arrived, and now both he and Dudley were being shunned, and Aunt Petunia was crying twice as hard.

'What do we do now?' Dudley asked in a rush of excitement. He seemed overjoyed to have someone else suffering the social taboo of magical talent, and Harry couldn't say he blamed him. He'd never heard of any of these places before (Diagon Alley? Platform 9 ¾? Was that even a real thing?), though, so he merely shook his head and shrugged. They were really royally screwed now.

x

In some other part of the country, John Watson we being awakened by a quiet knock at the door. 'John?'

It was his mother. He poked his head out from under the sheets. 'Yes, mum?'

'This letter, is it some sort of prank?'

John woke and stretched slowly, trudging barefoot over to her across the carpet. He'd been up far too late last night, playing Risk with Michael Stamford next door, so he wasn't entirely awake as he frowned at the letter. Something about magic, was all he'd gathered. 'No idea,' was how he answered his mother. He took the letter to the kitchen, drew out a pen, and wrote:

'I haven't any idea where these places are. JW.'

Before returning the invitation to the owl (who looked offended for some reason, and John wondered if they were meant to give him or hear a treat or something, but what did you offer owls anyway? Weren't they nocturnal? Was this one rabid?) and slouching off to his room again to fall asleep.

x

Unlike many other parents, Katerina Holmes was not the least bit surprised when an owl perched on her window sill with a letter in beak for her youngest son, Sherlock. In fact, she sniffed rather haughtily at the bird and sniped, 'You're late.' She ripped the letter from the bird's beak and turned her back. The bird ruffled his feathers rather tiredly and flew off, not bothering to wait for his pay.

x

'Do we have to go to Mrs Figg?' Dudley whined. 'Why can't we go to Piers' house?'

Harry yanked at suitcase he'd pilfered from the back of the closet in Dudley's/Harry's/No-one's second bedroom, filled with clothes and the few books Harry really couldn't bear to part with. The wheels on the suitcase were mostly broken, but he tried to keep a positive attitude in that he was not carrying Dudley's suitcase. Dudley had attempted to pack a TV, a bowling ball and a computer into one suitcase, and although Harry oversaw the packing mission he wasn't entirely sure Dudley hadn't slipped something by him. 'Piers' house might be okay for you, but what would I do?' He could hear Dudley huff softly behind him. Harry chose to ignore it. 'Besides, Piers and Mrs Polkiss are on vacation, and Mr Polkiss is on a business trip. So unless you've got a better plan, we're sticking with this, at least for now.'

Mrs Figg's house wasn't exactly far away, but the fear of not knowing what came next and the dread of Mrs Figg's cats was weighing down on Harry more than his heavy suitcase. They finally dropped everything at the front door and Harry stared the door down, trying to work up the nerve to press the doorbell.

Dudley, having no awful memories of stale cake and musty photo albums, rang the doorbell with aplomb, twiddling his thumbs in irritation when the door did not immediately open for him.

'Hello dears,' Mrs Figg greeted. Upon looking at the suitcases, she frowned. 'Oh dear, they didn't take the letters well, did they?' She ushered them inside, dragging Dudley's suitcase in behind Harry as Dudley made a bee-line for the sofa and sat. Harry insisted he didn't need help and apologized for Dudley's rudeness.

'He's not used to carrying his own things,' he commented, shooting a glare at Dudley, already petting a cat contentedly with one hand and flipping channels with the other. 'How did you know about the letters?' Harry asked.

Mrs Figg trotted to the stove, bringing out a saucepan, milk, and cocoa mix. 'Dumbledore told me,' she said nonchalantly, as if everyone knew Dumbledore.

'Who?'

'Dear lord, boy! The headmaster of your school! I'm surprised the letter didn't say as much.'

Harry shrugged guiltily. 'We weren't really allowed to look at them for too long. Uncle Vernon burned them almost as soon as they came in.' Mrs Figg tutted and shook her head, and Harry took the time she was using to mix the chocolate and milk to observe her. Her hair, which was brownish-grey and fading more and more into white, was up in curlers. She was rail thin, bony chicken legs and in a flower-printed housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. Her skin was softly tanned from working out in the garden and her nails were cut short. She didn't, to Harry, look anything like a witch.

'I'm a squib,' she said, to answer Harry's question. When Harry blinked at her again, she continued. 'I'm Muggle – that's non-magical person – born into an all-magic family. Just like Petunia. Well, they're not all-magic,' she corrected, 'But Lily was. Poor Petunia, I think her parents favoured Lily. Suppose she was making up for that with Dudley.' She and Harry both watched Dudley's sagging form as it began to tremble. Harry had noticed this a lot recently – Dudley crying. It was usually over-dramatic and loud, but it was also usually fake. This was real and quiet, and Harry doubted he'd ever see anything even half as pathetic if he lived to be a hundred.

Mrs Figg poured the hot chocolate into three mugs, and handed two of them to Harry as they walked back into the sitting room. Dudley was no longer trembling all over; now it was just his chins. He was doing a hard job of looking determinedly unmoved as Harry handed the third mug to him.

'Hagrid will be arriving in the morning,' Mrs Figg announced. 'He'll be taking you to Diagon Alley with some other local children – well, local-ish. It's better if he does it anyway, I can't remember a thing about the place.'

Dudley barely touched his hot chocolate, falling asleep quickly on the overstuffed couch, hand still resting on the bony cat. Harry made it to the guest bedroom before collapsing, feeling as though he should be feeling something. But there was no ache, no hope, and no happiness. He just felt empty. Nothing ever felt like home to him.

x

John bounced over happily to where Michael stood on the playground, thrumming with happiness. It had been a whole week since he received his letter and he was beyond ecstatic that he knew someone else going to this new strange school. He and Michael giggled excitedly and searched the internet for any clues about this Hogwarts, but nothing appeared. Instead the kindly older woman across the street, Mrs Hudson, had come over with biscuits and tea to tell them that a man called Hagrid would be accompanying them to diagonally, or something like that, to get their school supplies. Michael's mother worried slightly about the idea of her son going off with a stranger, but John's mother didn't even question it. He supposed there was just something about the genes in his family that allowed them all to take and accept shocking news without being the least bit shocked. A car pulled up and Mrs Hudson, supervising them until Hagrid arrived, rushed to meet the car. She placed a kiss on either cheek of an especially bony older woman as two boys, one tall and thin and the other short and fat, clambered out of the car and walked to where John and Michael stood. They all smiled eagerly at each other as Mrs Hudson and the other woman (Mrs Figg, a squib like Mrs Hudson, they were later informed) chatted.

'I'm Michael Stamford,' Michael all but shouted, thrusting his hand so the other two could shake it. The other three did the same, in turn; John Watson, Harry Potter, and Dudley Dursley. After the introduction, however, things became awkwardly quiet as they stared around at each other.

The silence was broken with a near-deafening pop as a broad young man and a smaller one, assumingly Harry, John, Dudley and Michael's relative age, appeared out of nowhere. 'You're not supposed to know how to Apparate, Mycroft, let alone actually do so,' the younger one said in a bored tone.

'Yes, well, we wouldn't have needed to if you'd stopped dawdling, Sherlock,' Realizing that they were audience to four other little boys and two older woman, all now staring at them, Mycroft, the elder, straightened up. 'Hello. I'm Mycroft Holmes, and this is my little brother, Sherlock. Try your best not to beat him up.'

The younger boy, Sherlock, blushed. 'You can let go of my hand now, Mycroft,' he snapped. Mycroft heaved a sigh and did so, disappearing as abruptly as he had appeared. Sherlock, like Harry, was thin and tall with unruly black hair. However unlike Harry, Sherlock made his unruliness look like a fashion statement. He turned to the other boys, glaring at the dirt as opposed to them. He walked forward with purpose, stopping just outside of their little circle. He looked up at Harry and said, blankly, 'Harry Potter. You're famous.'

Harry grimaced. 'So Mrs Figg told me. No idea why, though.'

'You stopped Voldemort from coming back. I don't know the full details though, Mycroft won't tell me. You're better off asking somebody once we get to our destination – Diagon Alley, I assume.'

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'And you're Sherlock…sorry, I didn't catch your last name.'

'Holmes,' he sighed, although more in relief than in frustration. As though he was glad nobody knew who he was. 'I take it you're all Muggle-borns? Well, except Harry, of course. You've been staying with an aunt and uncle. They weren't very nice to you, and neither is your cousin. I assume you're him?' Sherlock asked Dudley. Dudley's jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't respond.

'Brilliant,' John blurted. 'How did you know all that?'

Sherlock blushed and turned to John. 'His clothes are slightly too big for him. His parents would never have assigned godparents who didn't like him, so clearly for one reason or another he's not living with godparents. He must be living with another close relative, probably a sister or brother of his mother. Sister is more likely, as both Harry and his cousin share similar feminine shapes to their eyes. However while the cousin's clothes fit him perfectly, Harry's clothes are far too big for him. His knees are bent and he could be taller, so he's obviously been kept in a small, cramped space. The cousin, however, is quite wide and therefore has been afforded all the space necessary to grow. He hasn't gotten much taller, however, I assume those are his father's genes.'

'Brilliant,' John blurted again, blushing himself this time.

Sherlock blushed too. 'Thanks. That's, uhm, it's not what people normally say.'

'And what do people normally say?'

'Piss off.'

Harry and John laughed heartily and Sherlock raised his head somewhat, smiling and joining in softly. Michael stood ramrod straight. 'No I remember how I know you! We were at the same camp once! You kept making things explode!'

Sherlock sighed and nodded. 'None of the camp counsellors were much amused.'

'I found it quite amusing. Still do. You should have seen the size of this one experiment, bright blue and started –'

'Hello there, children!' The figure was massive, at least six times bigger than a normal man and John wondered for a moment how this massive being was going to fit into whatever mode of transportation they'd be using for the day. He looked simply too big to be allowed at all, let alone on a moving vehicle. 'Ye'all right? Ready ter go?'

Michael and Dudley had stepped back quite suddenly. Harry and John looked at the man in wonder. Sherlock stared up at him and smirked. 'I've heard you were big, but I merely assumed you were tall, not half-giant.'

Hagrid chuckled and smirked back. 'And you're awful short ter be a Holmes.'

'You know him?' John whispered in his ear. Sherlock shivered from the breath on his neck, and not exactly an unexpected presence.

'Not personally, but I come from a long line of magic, so everyone in my family knows him. He's been around for quite a while' Sherlock responded as Hagrid introduced himself to the rest of the kids.

John blinked in surprise. 'So if the rest of your family is magical too, why didn't they take you?' Sherlock blushed again, looking down at his feet and curing his family's too-easily-flushing genes. He didn't answer.

'Right now,' Hagrid started, clearing up his throat and standing up straight. 'We're goin' ter be usin' Muggle transportation, so ye'all better be on yer best behaviour, understood?'

x

The ride to central London, where they would be getting off to make their way into the magic-folks-only Diagon Alley, was relatively uneventful. Hagrid took up two seats alone, Harry had been manhandled into sitting next to Dudley, John took his place next to Michael and Sherlock sat as far away from everyone as he could, staring lethargically out of the bus window.

John stared at him as Michael continued speculating as to what Diagon Alley might look like. He stopped soon enough though, looking in the same direction as John's attention. 'His family's very cold, I think,' Michael said nonchalantly. 'And he can be very rude. He's quite amusing, not sure how he does that little deduction trick.'

'Maybe it's not a trick,' John responded. He stood up and walked to the back, where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock jumped a little, realizing he had company.

'Why are you sitting by me?' Sherlock blurted before he had time to censor his thoughts. He generally didn't need to censor anything, as people so rarely spoke to him. John took the affront for what it was (a defence mechanism) and brushed it off with 'Because I want to. Now tell me about magic. Tell me about Hogwarts.'

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by John's pure lack of being taken aback. 'Nobody ever wants to sit next to me. Nobody ever wants to talk to me.'

'Because you're a right arse.'

'So why are you sitting next to me?' He asked, confusion and frustration showing plainly on his face.

'Because even complete arses need friends.'

'I don't have friends.' He said bluntly, the idea of friendship making him more afraid than it really should and hoping to scare John off.

Again, John shrugged. 'So are you going to answer my question or not?'

x

Diagon Alley was a hectic mess. Harry, John and Mike loved it, walking side-by-side with their shoulders brushing as they took in every word Hagrid had to say. Dudley looked rather overwhelmed by it all, stopping frequently to peek in shop windows. Sherlock looked an odd combination of bored and anxious, as though the sheer amount of people were sending him into sensory overload. Dudley stuck by him for the trip, prodding him for more information and bursting occasionally with the odd comment. Dudley's entire personality made Sherlock sneer, and when Hagrid told them to break into smaller groups, groups of two so that they wouldn't overwhelm the shopkeepers, Sherlock dashed away from Dudley, dragging the first hand he felt across the way into Madame Malkin's robe shop with him.

He was rather pleasantly surprised to find that the hand he'd grabbed was John's.

'Dudley getting on your nerves, is he?' John smirked.

Sherlock glared at the ground. 'Utterly annoying imbecile.'

John laughed. 'You look at everyone as though they're stupid.'

'That's because everybody is stupid,' he snapped. 'He's just especially stupid.'

If John was put off by Sherlock's brusque attitude, he didn't show it. He looked more amused than anything else, and Sherlock couldn't place the awkward tug in his stomach that told him to be nice to John. He'd never had a friend before and he didn't think he'd ever wanted one. It didn't matter though, he thought. Nearly everyone got tired of him. John would probably punch him by the end of the day, everybody else did.

'So what are the houses like?' John asked as the robe maker measure them. Sherlock felt awfully stupid, holding his arms out like this, and he could just barely make out Dudley's face giggling at them from outside the window. He grimaced.

'Gryffindors are typically brave and reckless people, very loud and brash. Hufflepuffs are overly friendly, very touch-feely and kind. Ravenclaws are usually quiet and intellectual, very studious and serious. Slytherins are all cold and cross and ambitious. It's a cutthroat house.'

John flinched at the harsh tone in Sherlock's voice. 'That doesn't sound very pleasant. Are all of the people in Slytherin like that?'

'All of the dark witches and wizards to ever reach infamy have come out of Slytherin.'

John shuddered. 'That's awful, I hope I don't get put there.'

Sherlock shrugged and earned a wallop on the back of his head from the robe maker. 'Knowing my luck, I'll end up in there.'

'You're not evil, though.'

'You don't exactly know me very well.'

'I'm a good judge of character.'

'I'm a high-functioning sociopath.'

John threw his head back and laughed, also earning himself a smack. Sherlock was startled by the noise, let alone the fact that he made it occur. 'I find that very unlikely,' John retorted, staving off the last few giggles. 'Mike's got an uncle that works at St Mungo's. We've been over to visit him quite a bit since we got our letters, so we've seen all sorts of craziness over there. You're nothing like that, you know. Did you diagnose yourself?'

Sherlock nodded but narrowed his eyes, not dignifying the question with a verbal response. Thinking back to earlier, he asked, 'If you've already got one good friend, why would you want another?'

John was only slightly started, and answered back hollowly, 'I thought you didn't want to be friends?'

Sherlock didn't respond, blushing at his overly long robes as the robe maker hemmed them.

The rest of the trip was awkward as well.

x

Harry was stuck with Hagrid for the trip. On the one hand, he had been hoping to make friends, as he'd never really had friends before. Despite the fact that Harry had never met anyone quite as cruel as Dudley could be, Dudley was imminently popular, a fact Harry never had and never would understand. But then again, he was just thankful he was stuck with Dudley himself, and Hagrid was friendly enough. He found out that Hagrid was, as Sherlock had earlier said, half-giant. He'd also found out that Hagrid owned a dog called Fang, was the groundskeeper at school, and would like to own a dragon one day (although Harry was fairly certain that was illegal, even to wizard-kind).

Harry kicked at the dust on the floor awkwardly as Hagrid explained Quidditch to him. About halfway through, Hagrid looked down and frowned. 'Are you a'right, 'Arry?'

Harry shrugged. 'It's just…could you tell me why I'm famous?'

Hagrid shrugged as they entered another shop, a one with animals. Harry ran over the letter in the back of his head; they were allowed an owl, a cat, or a toad. Didn't owls eat toads, though? It seemed like a very bad idea to Harry. Hagrid broke through his thoughts. 'I'm not sure I'm the right person 'ter tell ye that, Harry.' He looked massively uncomfortable, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

'But then who is?' Harry asked, and Hagrid broke down.

x

By the time they were ready to leave for the day, everyone had a worn-out and anxious expression on their face, and Harry's was the worst of all. He clambered off the bus first and Sherlock looked at him sternly before placing a hand (Harry supposed it was supposed to be comforting, but coming from Sherlock it was merely awkward) on Harry's shoulder and squeezing firmly, walking out into the open to wait for his brother to re-appear.

Harry looked over at him as he was walking away, before making up his mind. He jogged over to him. 'I know you told John you don't want friends, but we should all sit together on the train. It's just, it'll be nice to have someone there who actually knows what's going on.'

Sherlock blinked and nodded. Harry offered a worried smile before hurrying off and hoping that Sherlock's cold demeanour wasn't the norm for wizards. He didn't think he could stand it if all future acquaintances were even half as off-putting as him. He continued to stare as Dudley ran up to him, brandishing his wand and asking Harry a thousand questions he didn't know how to answer. Harry wondered to himself if he ever looked that frightened, that alone, and if that was the real reason he'd never made friends in Muggle schools.

He shrugged about it and walked off with Dudley toward Mrs Figg, because these were all questions he could forget about until they met again on the train to school.

x

Sherlock took in a deep breath and held it, before letting it puff out. Mycroft would be here any moment, and he wanted to get this over with quickly. It would be embarrassing enough to admit without his older brother holding it over his head for the rest of his life. He walked over to John, standing with Mike, his hands shaking.

'Uhm, John,' he asked, cursing the irrelevant pauses in his sentence. 'Could I talk to you for a moment?'

John looked only slightly suspicious as he nodded. Stamford's eyes lit up as he saw his mother, waving a quick goodbye as he ran toward her, babbling quickly about all of the things they saw that day. John's full attention and dark blue eyes were now focused on Sherlock. Sherlock shuddered, he'd never had someone look right in his eyes as they spoke to him before, and it was slightly unnerving, although he wasn't entirely sure he disliked the situation.

'WouldyoupleasebemyfriendJohn?' he asked, facing puffing again as he finished in embarrassment.

John's face screwed up a moment before he laughed again. Sherlock felt something tingling in the pit of his stomach as John threw an arm around his neck. It took Sherlock a moment to realize that this was hugging, and he awkwardly reciprocated. 'Of course, idiot,' John responded.

Sherlock stood for a minute still for a moment, not sure what they were meant to do now. John squirmed, giggling again. 'Uh, Sherlock? Can you let me go now? My mum is here, and so is your brother.'

Sherlock jumped quickly away from John and John continued laughing as Sherlock blushed. Mycroft looked smugly at him on the way home and for several hours later. Sherlock cursed Mycroft in his mind, thinking, Mycroft be damned, I now have something he'll never have: friends.


	2. Chapter 2

The start of the school year could not come soon enough, in anyone's opinion. Dudley was getting antsy and tired of Mrs Figg's cooking. Harry was getting anxious, because as far as he knew he couldn't perform any magic at all. Mrs Figg was getting claustrophobic, because this was the most amount of humans she'd had living in her house since her husband died. There simply wasn't enough room to accommodate Harry and Dudley and all of her cats. To make matters worse, Hagrid had come by to visit and bring Harry an owl as his pet for school. Dudley was terribly excited, as it had been awhile since he'd last received a present from his parents, and was disappointed to find that Hagrid hadn't brought him anything.

Hagrid shrugged sheepishly. 'Sorry, I didn't really get ter know ya. I brought Harry to yer house when he was but an infant,' Hagrid chuckled at the memory, and Harry could see scenes of his baby self in Hagrid's eyes, wriggling around in baby blankets. But there was something sad about Hagrid's look too, as though he'd lost something special, meaningful.

'Was Harry an ugly baby?' Dudley asked. Hagrid gasped at his audacity and Mrs Figg swatted the back of his head. Harry merely shook his own, sighing. Dudley never did have the best social skills, but then he didn't really need them either. What could he possibly use them for? 'I only meant if Harry was so skinny back then, too.'

'O' course not!' Hagrid boomed. 'An' 'e's only like this now cause 'a your fat arse.' Hagrid clapped a giant hand over his mouth, stunned at his own outburst. Dudley looked to be in a state of shock. 'Oh God, I shouldn'a said that,' Hagrid said miserably. Dudley merely shrugged at the offense, but nonetheless set down the biscuit he'd been nibbling on. Harry tried hard not to laugh, because it was an awkward truth that many people avoided mentioning. It wasn't that Dudley had ever been all that sensitive about his weight, but nobody wanted to test how volatile a reaction mentioning it might get.

To break the awkward silence, Harry announced, 'I think I'll call her Hedwig.'

'Oh!' Mrs Figg cried. 'How awfully fitting!' Dudley nodded absently, then asked the question he and Harry had both been thinking, but had avoided asking for fear of sounding stupid.

'I can understand the cat, but why a toad? Why an owl?'

'Well,' Hagrid began, 'As 'm sure you noticed, we tend ter communicate by owl post. So havin' a' owl is ridiculously useful. A toad on t'other hand – well, I couldn't tell yer what ch'd use a toad fer.'

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

'Your mum got you a toad?'

Mike nodded lamely, clearly as confused as John was. 'I suppose it was the least expensive animal on the list, but I'd be fine without an animal at all. What am I meant to do with a toad?' John shrugged and shook his head, staring at the small amphibian in the palm of Mike's hand.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It was official: Sherlock detested his brother. And his mother now, too, for good measure.

When Mycroft heard that Sherlock had made a friend, he insisted that he, their mother, and his boyfriend, Greg, go to pick up John in a Ministry car before heading to the station. Sherlock hated the idea, naturally, if for no other reason than because he hated any idea that forced him into spending extra time with Mycroft.

'Can't he just Apperate me there?' Sherlock begged their mother.

She, as always, sided with Mycroft. 'I'd like to meet this friend of yours, and his family,' she said with her endlessly haughty air. Sherlock groaned internally but gave up the fight; it simply wasn't worth having. He never had a voice in his own home and it had always been like that. It always would be. But he could still protest in his mind. If his mum wanted to me John and John's family, it meant that she didn't trust Sherlock's ability to make friends. He knew John was Muggle-born, and he also knew that his mother would have nothing kind to say about that.

He sent John an owl the day before they were scheduled to leave, but only because his mother refused to 'be made a fool of' by showing up to an empty house. Sherlock would have preferred to use a phone, but they didn't have one.

'They're disgusting, primeval things,' his mother said. 'Why in God's name would you want to use one?'

'Experiment,' Sherlock grumbled, his constant excuse for everything.

And so this is how Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg, and Mrs Holmes came to be on the front step of John Watson's house. The ride over had been uneventful, save for the occasional snide remarks from Mummy about disgraceful Muggle technology, although the Muggle technology was not in the least what Katerina was really upset about. Truth be told, she was not fond of Greg. His family, although kind-hearted and more than welcoming to Mycroft, was not up to par with her usual standard. Meaning that not only were they middle class, but they were – Heaven help her – Muggles. But Mycroft was a prefect and made excellent marks in all his classes, so she allowed her eldest son to have his "dalliances," as she called them. The word made Mycroft want to strangle something from the mere suggestion that Greg was no more than a distraction. He subdued his anger by reminding himself that after his departure from Hogwarts he would be free to make his own decisions and associations without influence from his mother.

He knew that this was not his mother's only struggle. Mycroft had been much younger when he first came out – about Sherlock's age, perhaps, if a few months younger. Mummy had waved her hand and shook the matter under the carpet as rubbish. 'No son of mine is a poofter,' she'd said, and Mycroft felt the anger pooling coldly in his chest, solidifying him. He hadn't made an attempt to connect with his mother since then.

When Greg put the car into park and unlocked the doors, Mummy stepped out onto the sidewalk as though afraid it might eat her. Mycroft rolled his eyes at her performance, because it really was nothing more than that. She'd seen sidewalk before, and asphalt, and concrete. But she was going to make this as difficult as possible, just to illustrate how different John's life was from their own. As though such things had ever mattered to Sherlock.

Sherlock approached the door but hesitated, unsure what the custom was for Muggles when it came to house calls. He looked to Greg, who smiled and pressed the small button on the frame of the door. A bell sounded from inside, and John threw the door wide open, smiling in nervous excitement. An older girl, about Mycroft's age, stood in the background, eyes wide as she surveyed the party gracing her doorstep.

'I believe your customs dictate you to allow us inside?' Mummy asked coldly. Mycroft's sigh was barely audible, available only to Sherlock and to John, who had started to blush deeply.

'Uh, yeah,' John said. 'Right.' He held open the door and gestured for Mummy Holmes to walk in. And she did so, though quite slowly, as though walking to a funeral dirge. Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock all gave John the same apologetic look, and had John not been so terrified of the Holmes Matriarch he might have found it funny. As it was, she was now standing in their hallway, squinting at the family photos on the wall.

John cleared his throat. 'This is my sister, Harriet,' he looked back to her frightened form, slightly pudgy and punk, a hoop circling her right nostril. She waved at them, eyes wide, not even bothering to correct John (It's Harry now, you tosser). Greg waved, Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft extended his hand to shake. Harriet took his hand lightly, dazed by his formal attire.

'I'll go get mum, shall I?' she asked, backing out of the room as quickly as possible.

The room moved into an awkward silence, with Mummy looking at John expectantly. Entertain me, her look said. John had the feeling that she was putting him up to a test that, no matter what he did, he would fail. He looked to Sherlock for help, only to find that his friend was flush-faced and staring at the carpet.

'Well, I'm quite excited to meet you. The name's Greg Lestrade,' Greg said, shaking John's hand. And then, for pure dramatic effect and defiance of Mummy Holmes, he added, 'I'm Mycroft's boyfriend.'

Mummy fainted.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

'Mummy will never forgive you for that.' Mycroft was elated. He stood on slight tip-toe to kiss Greg softly at the corner of his mouth, glad that they could now do this in public, if they wanted to. Of course, there were too many children around for them to be too affectionate, but that the option was there at all was a new freedom that Mycroft wanted to exploit, if only for a little while. Greg's pronouncement at John's house had been a brilliant political and social move, not only relieving some of the pressure from Sherlock about having to explain his classist, racist family to his friend but also allowing Mycroft and Greg to be who they really were.

But again, they were Prefects standing on a crowded train platform, their train loading up and readying for departure at any minute. The kisses and caresses could wait until that night, after the great feast. Right now, they had work to do.

'I don't suppose you've seen my brothers anywhere, have you?' a disdainful voice from behind them spoke up. Upon turning they were confronted with Percy Weasley, Head Boy and Prefect for Gryffindor House.

'Which one, mate?' Greg asked. 'You've got so many.'

Mycroft chortled and a frown etched itself on Percy's face. 'Fred and George, specifically,' he replied. 'Although Ron does appear to be missing.'

'Ronald has likely already boarded. I believe I saw him attempting to escape your mother – she was rubbing at some dirt he'd gotten on his nose.'

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Harry had never been on a train before, so he wasn't sure if this one differed from any of the other trains – aside from the magical entrance, that is. He wondered how that worked, anyhow. What if a Muggle was blind, or perhaps particularly clumsy, and stumbled onto Platform 9 ¾ by mistake? He knew they must have had a system in place to prevent such accidents, but he wanted to know how it worked. He wanted to know how everything worked, really.

'Excuse me,' called a voice from the door. 'I hate to ask, but could I sit with you? Everywhere else is full.'

The voice belonged to gangly boy with violently red hair. His pale face was littered with freckles, his cheeks tinted permanently pink. He seemed embarrassed to be alive, shimmying awkwardly onto the seats when Harry nodded his assent.

'I've got some other people joining me soon,' Harry added, hoping to sound more important and confident than he really was.

The boy looked down to a tear in the seat. 'Oh,' he said simply.

The seconds stretched by and Harry wished for anybody to show up. Even Sherlock. Even Dudley.

The newcomer broke Harry's strict concentration on the window with a hopeful question. 'So, what team do you root for?'

Harry stuttered for a moment, wondering if he should just say Man U instead of admitting he'd never been one for footie, before remember what Hagrid had told him about Quiddtich. Did he really know enough to fake it? But the boy was looking at him so fervently, hoping for any sort of communication that Harry couldn't stand to lie to him. 'I actually don't know that much about Quidditch,' he admitted.

The redhead's eyebrows flew up into his hair. 'Are you serious?'

Harry nodded, allowing himself to appear vulnerable. 'I grew up with Muggles. Not my parents, mind you, my aunt and uncle. I didn't even know about Quidditch or magic or Hogwarts until about a month ago.'

The redhead nodded in empathy, clearly sad for Harry's loss of information, and started to explain about the different teams. 'The Chudley Canons are the best, obviously,' the boy said with pride, his chest puffing out. Harry didn't have to be Sherlock, or even know anything about Quidditch, to tell that this was his new friend's favourite team.

A soft knock came from the other side of the compartment door before it was opened to allow John and Sherlock in. Harry smiled and waved emphatically, glad to his – well, could he call them friends yet? Comrades, perhaps? John smiled and muttered a quick 'hey.' Sherlock nodded, but not to be rude; he looked rather preoccupied.

'I've just met Sherlock's mum,' John blurted. He blushed as the irrelevant statement left his mouth, and Sherlock's expression turned sheepish.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said, turning to face John. John shook his head and waved his hand, but Harry and even the redhead, it seemed, could tell that whatever Sherlock's mother had said was bothering him far more than he was willing to let on.

The redhead straightened his back and lowered his eyes, looking at Sherlock. 'Oh, I know who you are.'

Sherlock groaned, flopping next to Ron. 'Please, could you forget?'

He snorted. 'My dad says your father is the biggest arse he's ever met.'

'That's only because he hasn't met my mother.'

The boy barked in unexpected laughter, his eyebrows ascending once more at the sheer boldness of Sherlock's statement. 'I can't believe you'd say that about your own mother.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'You'd probably say the same of yours, but at least your mother loves you.' The boy lowered his eyes guiltily and Harry squirmed, uncomfortable with the tightness the air had taken on when Sherlock started telling the truth. He had a feeling it was always going to be like this, Sherlock saying whatever came to mind no matter how uncomfortable it made anybody else.

'Where are my manners?' John asked overly loudly. He turned to their still-unnamed companion. 'My name is John Watson. This,' he said, gesticulating to Sherlock, 'Well, as you know, he's Sherlock Holmes. And I take it you've met Harry.'

Harry blushed. 'I'm sorry, I'm afraid I never introduced myself.'

'S'alright, mate, me neither. I'm Ron Weasley,' the redhead, Ron, announced.

Harry nodded. 'I'm Harry Potter.' Harry started to feel sympathy for Sherlock's hatred of being known, as this was about the millionth person who'd widened their eyes in realization of who he was. Sherlock caught his eyes and raised his eyebrows in agreement.

'So, Ron,' Sherlock interrupted before Ron had time to gawk, 'What is your father working on now? I love his work on Muggle artifacts, although mummy won't let me do any of my own experiments.'

'Mum doesn't really like it when dad does it either,' Ron said, still distracted. But Harry wasn't the reason he was distracted anymore. The tips of his ears were turning pink.

'Why are you embarrassed?'

'Who says I'm embarrassed?' Ron shot back, his cheeks flushing.

'Well, you're blushing now, but earlier your ears were turning pink and you refused to meet my eyes. Clearly you're not shy, as you initiated the conversation with Harry before John and I arrived and you had no hesitation when calling me out. We're all friends here. What's so embarrassing?'

'You wouldn't understand,' Ron replied, frustrated tears rolling down his spotted cheeks.

Sherlock tilted his head, confused. 'That's very likely, I don't have many social skills. But John and Harry are both good with that sort of thing. They'd probably understand.'

Ron looked up at Harry, then slide his eyes to John. 'My family's dirt poor,' he admitted bitterly.

'That's nothing to be ashamed of,' John said with a shrug. Harry nodded with enthusiasm.

'Dudley and I got kicked out of our house when my aunt and uncle found out we were wizards. We haven't heard from them since.' Harry, who had never been particularly close to his aunt and uncle, hardly found this an issue; but he did wonder how Dudley was holding up. He was putting on a good front, but he knew it couldn't possibly be easy for him not only to have been kicked out of his old life and thrust into something new, but to pretend that everything was fine and he wasn't struggling. He frowned at himself. He didn't even know where Dudley was right now.

'He's with Mike,' Sherlock answered the unspoken question. 'I think they're trying to find Hagrid. I didn't bother telling them that he's too big for a train and will meet us upon arrival. Much funnier to watch them running about, see how long it takes them to figure it out.'

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It was a little after noon when the compartment door slid open to reveal Dudley and Mike, breathless and annoyed.

'Sherlock, you tosser,' Mike said. 'Why didn't you tell us Hagrid wasn't on the train?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Since when is it my job to keep everyone else informed?'

'Well, you are the only one of us who's been to Hogwarts before,' John pointed out. Sherlock shook his curls into his face. 'What do you mean, no?'

'My whole family has been, but I'm the youngest. When would I have ever gone to Hogwarts?'

'I dunno,' John shrugged. 'To visit?'

'I wish,' Ron piped up. 'Fred and George pull some of the most hilarious jokes on professors. Id've loved to see some of the ones they came up with last year. This one time, they set a giant python –'

'Excuse me, but have any of you seen a toad?' All six boys ceased their chatter to turn their attention to the compartment door, where a girl their age stood, already dressed in her school clothes. She had ridiculously bushy brown hair that looked almost stylized instead of natural and large buck teeth. She had her nose in the air, as a way to try to assert authority. 'A boy named Neville's lost one,' she supplied in addition. Behind her, a small and scared looking boy stood with his arms to his chest, as though preparing himself to be hit.

'Sorry,' John said, 'But no. We'll let you know, though, if we see anything,' he finished. But the girl was no longer looking at John. She was staring, quite obviously, at Harry.

'I know who you are! Oh, Holy cricket! You're Harry Potter!' She walked into the compartment and thrust her hand out for Harry to shake. He took it awkwardly. 'I've read all about you,' she continued.

'I'm sorry, but who are you?' Harry asked.

'I'm Hermione Granger,' she said, not letting go of his hand until Harry dropped his own. Hermione turned around to address the rest of the compartment, eyes falling specifically on Ron. 'And who might you be?'

'Ron Weasley.'

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Mike Stamford.'

'John Watson.'

'Dudley Dursley.'

'Neville Longbottom,' the forgotten boy in the corridor piped up. When the group turned to look at him, poor Neville tightened his arms, looking ashamed to have been caught speaking. John would have told him to come and sit down, but there was so little room left in the compartment that he wasn't sure they could actually find Neville a seat. John exchanged a look with Sherlock that clearly said, And social convention dictates we'd have to ask Hermione to stay as well, something John doubted the rest of the group would keen on.

'Draco Malfoy,' a voice far too smooth to belong to any eleven-year-old drawled. Sherlock stood abruptly, nearly knocking Hermione over as a pale-faced boy with platinum blonde hair and a pointy nose entered the compartment, flanked by three cronies. When Draco saw Sherlock his face darkened, then lightened again to allow for a smirk. 'When I heard that Harry Potter was in this compartment, I had to check and see if the rumours were true. But if Sherlock is here, then I know I absolutely must stay. '

'Go away, Malfoy,' Sherlock hissed, but Draco shook his head sadly.

'Is that really any way to greet an old friend?'

'We're hardly friends, Draco, you know that.'

'Oh, but we could be,' Draco said, tilting his head. 'We're bound to be in Slytherin together, so why not call a truce right now?' Draco extended his hand and Sherlock glared at it, clearly lost in trying to find a clever way to reply.

'Who are these three?' John asked, breaking the tension.

Draco glared in John's general direction, but skipping over his actual figure to survey the other students. 'Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, James Moriarty.' Moriarty was staring at Sherlock in a way that unnerved John, although Sherlock didn't seem to notice, still glaring daggers at the hand Malfoy had offered for shaking. Draco opened his mouth elicit what John was sure to be a very well-written speech about something devious, but Malfoy was knocked to the ground by the lady with the candy trolly.

'Oh, sorry dears!' She tittered, then actually surveyed the scene. A little uneasily, she asked, 'Shouldn't you be changing into your robes? I expect you'll be arriving soon.'

Malfoy straightened himself up as the trolly-lady backed away, pulling her trolly with her. He was clearly embarrassed, only snapping 'you haven't seen the last of me!' as he and his friends slunk away to wherever they came from.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The boat ride to Hogwarts was, all things considered, uneventful, although Ron spent most of it staring into the water. 'Fred and George told me there's a giant squid in this lake,' he told Sherlock. 'And that it likes to pick off first-years.'

John, who'd been expecting Sherlock to tell Ron what rubbish that was, was surprised to hear Sherlock exclaim 'Really?', and found himself pulling Sherlock back from the side of their tiny boat.

'Do you really want to be the one kid who walks into school for the first time literally sopping wet?'

Sherlock scowled, but shook his head.

Walking in through front doors of the castle was something of a wonder, and even Sherlock seemed intimated. The first years were stopped right in front of the Great Hall by a stern-looking woman with black hair, pursed lips and spectacles. She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, and went on to give a speech about house honour and rule-breaking. But Harry didn't pay much attention. As he looked at his fellow first years, he saw Draco Malfoy blowing softly on Neville's neck, making the poor boy shiver occasionally – but not enough to actually make him turn around. Hermione, standing next to Draco, elbowed him hard in the ribs. Draco stopped what he was doing to stare at Hermione, and Harry half expected him to hit her. Instead he seemed entranced, and Harry wondered if he, like Dudley, had never been told no before.

They were quickly lead into the Great Hall, a massive dining hall with four long tables in the middle and an altar-like long table in the back where a group of adults – presumable the other professors – sat and watched as the first years entered. Behind him, Harry heard Hermione whisper something about Hogwarts, a History, but didn't pay much attention; his eyes were fixed on the ceiling which was reflecting the stars in the night sky. They stopped near the front of the room and were ordered into a line alphabetically, facing a stool with an old hat on it. Sherlock had explained the Sorting Hat to him, and Harry was suddenly thankful for his wealth of accurate information; Ron's brothers had said that it was going to be some sort of a test, and he honestly didn't think he could morally fight a beaten-up hat.

The hat sang his song describing the four houses, and Harry became overwhelmed with doubt and dread again. None of the houses sounded like ones he could even begin to fit into. What if there was no house for him? What if he got up there and the Sorting Hat simply silenced? Or, worse, what if the Sorting Hat announced that there had been a mistake and he was no wizard at all?

'Stop worrying, it's distracting me,' he heard Sherlock hiss, and something coiled tight in his stomach lapsed into stifled giggles.

Nobody paid much attention to where anybody else got sorted – well, perhaps that's not true, but the first years certainly didn't pay any mind to anybody other than their friends or other people they'd picked out. Hermione was the first person Harry knew to be called up, and she wobbled uncertainly, looking as insecure as Harry felt. The hat hummed at her, and she seemed to be having a conversation with it, her eyes rolling up to try to see it as it talked to her. The hat finally shouted 'RAVENCLAW!' to the rest of the hall and Hermione, sighing in relief, ran to the table with the red lining.

Sherlock was next, and he was doing a terrible job of hiding his misery. Harry could tell he'd been dreading this moment, but couldn't tell what someone like Sherlock had to worry about. But he saw Sherlock's eyebrows lift in surprise right before the hat screamed 'RAVENCLAW!', and Sherlock numbly walked to the table with the blue lining. Harry looked over in time to see one Slytherin, a redhead that must have been Sherlock's brother, standing to applaud him.

The next few people went by without issue or comment. Dudley was sent Slytherin, and Harry caught his confused and nervous look, as though he were heading to a pack of hungry and rabid animals. Poor Neville Longbottom was sent surprisingly to Gryffindor. Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin, and Moriarty was sent to the same shortly after. Harry was up next, and he closed his eyes as the hat sat down onto his head.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The rest of the sorting was uneventful, but Harry was still shaking from the conversation he'd had with the Hat – or, perhaps, from low blood sugar. Mike went to Hufflepuff, John joined Harry at Gryffindor and Ron frowned as the Hat sorted him into Hufflepuff as well.

Dumbledore was about as odd as Harry had been expecting, and he could have sworn he saw Dumbledore wink at him after mentioning trouble in his start-of-term speech. In the middle of dinner, an official-looking owl flew over to the Ravenclaw table and landed in Sherlock's lap. Harry couldn't see his face, but Sherlock's shoulders were hunched up. He didn't have time to go and check on him until after the feast was done, and Harry and John both snuck away from their tour group for a moment to approach him.

'Go away,' Sherlock snapped, but John ignored him, lifting the letter out of his hand. Ron had come over to see what the problem was, and just in time to redirect Mycroft as Sherlock whispered, 'Don't let my brother read the letter.'

John felt something in his heart break. 'What's it say?' Harry asked.

'It says he's been disowned. He was meant to go into Slytherin.'


	3. Chapter 3

Ron huffed as he pushed his way through the crowd. He didn't expressly want to do this, but Sherlock was his friend. Well, Harry was his friend, John was Harry's friend, and Sherlock was John's friend. Neither Harry nor John could think of a good way to keep an eye on Sherlock, to make sure he was okay, but Ron - perhaps because he was an older brother - immediately came up with a solution. 'Leave it to me!' he shouted as Harry and John were moved with the force of the crowd toward their first class.

Ron took a deep breath as he stared at the mass of bushy brown hair before him. Ron exhaled with gusto, and tapped Hermione on the shoulder.

Hermione turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. 'Oh, hullo,' she greeted.

'It's Ron,' he offered.

'Yes,' Hermione said with caution. 'I know your name. It's not exactly difficult to remeber.' Ron blushed lightly; Hermione seemed to be the only one to think so. Or, perhaps, it was only because she had met him and not his brothers that she remebered his name. People almost always forgot he existed, especially since Ginny was born. It wasn't something he liked to ruminate on, but Hermione's snipe had brushed him off track, and he now stood staring at her, his insides squirming. 'Is there something you wanted?' Hermione asked, more gently this time.

'Yeah,' Ron said, shaking his head back into reality. 'It's about - you know Sherlock?'

Hermione's eyelids lowered in some sort of combination of sadness, and of something more complex. 'Yes,' she said. 'It's difficult not to.'

'How do you mean?'

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. She looked tired - actually, nearly all of the Ravenclaws did. 'His brother was really loud row with the prefects last night, insisting that he get in to see Sherlock.'

Ron snorted. 'Sounds like him, from what Fred and George have told me. Anyway,' Ron sighed. 'I don't suppose there's any way you could...keep an eye on him? For John,' Ron quickly clarified. 'They've gotten really close and John's worried about what Sherlock'll get up to, since he's upset and on his own.'

'You mean, like not showing up for classes?' Hermione asked darkly, but then her attitude changed as her head popped up. 'Sit down,' she hissed, and dragged Ron down to the bench. Ron didn't need to be told what was going on, as he'd heard his brothers use that same tone whenever their mum was ascending the stairs and they needed to get as far away from the scene of the crime as quickly as was humanly possible. Ron grabbed a piece of toast and buttered it with nonchalence.

'Oh, hello Sherlock,' Hermione greeted. 'Why don't you sit down? Ron's decided to join us before poitons. He's been telling me about Professor Snape, he sounds very...interesting.' Ron tried hard not to snort at her description. Interesting was a very polite way to describe Professor Snape, but there was no point in correcting her now - especially not as he'd forgotten that the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were, indeed, to have potions together.

He could feel Sherlock narrow his eyes, not in suspicion so much as confusion. 'I had no idea the two of you had become friends,' Sherlock stated.

Hermione blinked, thrown off by his statement, but Ron covered. 'What can I say? I never miss a chance to introduce someone to wizard's chess. Hermione's a natural. We're forming a club.' Hermione smiled, but Ron could see her eyes were screaming, even as she laughed.

Sherlock tilted his head up and sighed. 'Oh, alright. I suppose I will join you, as soon as I take care of something.' And without further explanation, Sherlock started off toward the long table in the back, where the teachers sat.

Hermione dropped the calm facade and kicked Ron under the table. 'Shit!' Ron hissed, rubbing his shin. 'What was that for?'

'I can't play wizard's chess!' Hermione whispered.

'So?'

'So? We're in the same House! We share a common room! Don't you think he'll find it odd if I'm never playing it?'

Ron regarded his toast for a moment, unable to think of a good excuse Hermione could use, should Sherlock confront her with the evidence (which, given everything he'd seen so far, he would). Finally, he shrugged, and said 'Guess I'll have to teach you then,' before shoving the rest of the toast in his mouth.

* * *

It was Dudley's first time alone, ever. Even when regular school had started back home, he was surrounded by the same neighbourhood children with whom he had grown up playing. He'd never recognized before, just how important it was to have friends or even acquaintances. He didn't even have Harry around now, to either badger or lean on, and wouldn't be seeing him again until their double potions lesson tomorrow afternoon. And to make matters worse, his housemates weren't exactly what anyone would call comforting. One boy in particular, with pale skin, a rather large nose, and greasy black hair tripped him as he followed the rest of his House to the dungeons the night before.

Dudley staggered, holding onto the railing as tightly as his porky fingers would allow. He whipped his head around. 'Oi,' he shouted. 'What was that for?'

The boy, who had been trailing somewhat ahead of Dudley, turned around quickly with a smug smirk. 'Is it true you're a Mudblood?' he asked. A couple of the younger kids gasped, while a few of the teenagers either snickered or shook their heads. Everyone else moved around them, as though there was no confrontation on the horizon.

Dudley opened his mouth, unable to think of a retort that wasn't so obviously Muggle, but the threat of argumentation was stomped out nearly as soon as it had started when a cold voice behind him sliced into the air. 'Of course he isn't, Anderson. Now run along. Don't you have some homework to do or, say, hair to wash?' Dudley turned behind him to see a boy, equally as pale as Anderson (though less sickly-looking), platinum blonde hair slicked back, sneering at his attacker. Dudley remembered having seen him before – maybe on the train? – but was unable to put a name to the face.

Anderson scoffed in return, intending to stand his ground. But the boy with the blonde hair was having none of it, as he warned Anderson, 'Careful now, my father pays your father's salary.' Anderson huffed, turned on the balls of his feet, and continued down the stairs. Dudley was left with is savior, who turned his piercing eyes onto Dudley next.

'What's a Mudblood?' Dudley blurted.

'Oh,' the boy said with nonchalance, 'You technically are one – a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents. But as a Slytherin, that simply won't do. You'll have to come up with a cover story at some point.' The boy offered his hand. 'I'm Draco Malfoy, by the way. I recognize you from the train. You're Harry Potter's cousin, Dudley, yes?'

Dudley nodded, and shook his hand. 'Why did you help me out, back there?' he asked.

Draco shrugged with one shoulder. 'Houses are meant to be families. Well, really, the school is meant to be a family, and each House is, I suppose, a child fighting for the title of favourite son or daughter. If we don't all get along, we'll wind up losing the House Cup to Gryffindor, or worse, Hufflepuff.' Draco shuddered.

'What's the matter with Hufflepuff and Gryffindor?' Dudley asked, although he already felt a competitive urge surging through is blood, making his heart race. Losing something to somebody else, somebody less worthy, made him heat up with rage. It was a trait he most likely gained from his father.

Draco waved his hand as he led Dudley down the stairs. 'Nothing really, I suppose, just different character traits that lead those people to their respective Houses.'

'Like?' Dudley asked. Draco tilted his head at Dudley, in a show of pity and slight confusion.

'You really don't know, do you? Dear Lord,' Draco sighed. 'Well, Ravenclaws are particularly smart. They value competence and hate wasting time. Gryffindors are known for bravery, although I think it could be better be called recklessness. Slytherins and Gryffindors have a legendary rivalry. Gryffindors tend to play the hero, and cast us as the villain,' Draco explained. 'Hufflepuffs are just sort of…there. I honestly believe that the House was created to deal with the rest of the witches and wizards who aren't really all that special. Supposedly, they're the friendly ones.' When Draco had finished his explanation, Dudley realized that they entered and walked through the common room, into the dormitory. Dudley glanced at his surroundings, before finding his bed across from Draco's.

'Is it a big deal, me being a Mudblood in Slytherin?'

Draco gave Dudley another withering look, as he prepared himself for bed. 'Let's just say, that if anybody asks about your parentage, lie.'

Dudley sat in the Great Hall recounting these events to himself, and contemplating writing them down into a notebook just to keep himself busy. The lack of stimulus (as nobody in the wizarding world appeared to know what a television was, let alone be in possession of one) had left Dudley anxious and distracted, especially as he noticed more and more that everyone who hadn't come to school with pre-set friendships was starting to develop new ones. Even Draco, who'd been walking along alone last night before bumping into Dudley, was having a rather animated discussion with some other people further down the table. As he sat there, staring into the grainy seas of his porridge, Dudley realized for the first time ever that maybe he wasn't so special after all.

* * *

Hermione was hardly a smooth operator, as the Muggles would say. Sherlock supposed that this was related, in part, to her status as an only child. There was also some deeper, sadder reason lurking below the surface, an explanation Sherlock could connect with very well indeed, only he didn't feel like seeing it at the moment. At the moment, he just wanted to be left alone.

Maybe at some point in time down the road, he would appreciate what Hermione was trying to do. But today was the first day of classes, and as such, her behavior was most annoying.

Sherlock had always been a loner, so the last thing he wanted was a living, breathing shadow. Especially not one as tenacious or intelligent as Hermione Granger. Fortunately for Sherlock, Hermione's common sense and skills of observation were nowhere near on par with her book knowledge, and when Sherlock dodged into an empty hallway, she diligently followed.

He turned on heel and spat at her, 'Why are you following me?'

She startled a bit at his tone, blinked in confusion, and then stammered, 'Oh, so – so this isn't the way to Transfiguration?'

Sherlock gripped at his hair in annoyance, tugging just hard enough to feel the pain. 'Oh please, don't bother pretending you don't know. What, having I got some sort of sign on that says "kick me," or have you not had a chance to put it there yet?'

Hermione's eyes were wide as she shook her head, speechless.

'Maybe some sort of dead animal you want to slip into my bag, get me into trouble with Professor Snape, make him think I'm the one who stole the gillyweed?'

Hermione's eyes narrowed. 'You're the one who stole the gillyweed?'

'No, but –' He huffed. 'That isn't the point. What do you want from me?'

'To know if you're okay,' she blurted. Sherlock's face went blank, as it always did when he was confronted with situations he didn't know how to react to.

'To see if I'm…?'

It was Hermione's turn to make a noise of frustration. 'You're quite a bit daft, aren't you? Yes. Ron wanted me to make sure you're okay. That's what we were talking about this morning, when you walked up.' She hoped this meant she wouldn't have to learn how to play wizard's chess, as she'd always been quite awful at the Muggle version of the game. But somewhere, in the back of her mind, she recognized she was also a touch…disappointed.

Sherlock was still trying to understand the predicament. 'Ron wanted to make sure I was okay? About what – why wouldn't I be?'

'Well, Hermione said with caution, 'You were just disowned by your family.'

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the stone wall. 'Oh, that. Well, it was to be expected.'

Hermione's eyebrows raised in alarm. 'You expected your parents to disown you for being sorted into Ravenclaw?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I'm breaking a family legacy by doing so, and my mother considers it quite embarrassing. The last family member – well, extended family member – not to be sorted into Slytherin was Sirius Black. Mother has always attributed his bout with insanity to his placement in Gryffindor, although I think she's secretly pleased about the whole thing,' Sherlock said, a sick smirk gracing his face.

Hermione felt something uncomfortable wobbling around in her stomach. For the first time, she felt unsafe in a school building. 'Your mother is happy that Harry Potter's parents were murdered?'

Sherlock took her tone to be a judgment on his own person, and Hermione mentally kicked herself. 'I never said I shared my mother's sentiments, nor have I ever said she was a kind woman. She did disown me, after all. Hardly what I'd call a wonderful example of motherly love,' Sherlock snapped. He slipped out of the hallway and into the crowd before Hermione could stop him, and she stood in the small hallway wondering if this was all just the beginning of a much larger problem.


End file.
